Sunday, March 11, 2012

Recalculating route

On
Saturday night, I was standing in a crowded room, wearing a t-shirt that could
best be described as "trashy", eating sushi, and talking about Zorg.
And--

Actually,
let me back up.

The
last several years, my life has literally been a story. This has been a
fascinating experiment. It isn't often that the new-age-hippie-woo-woo claim
that "you create your own reality" is so true. I've really valued the
chance to view my life with some perspective, to look for the humor in bad
dates, and to get such wonderful encouragement about my writing from my
friends. (Since I have never advertised this blog, my readership is
comprised of people I know in real life. And some web-crawling search bot from Estonia; that
checks in regularly too.)

In
addition to the perspective and encouragement, I had something to look forward
to. At some point, I'd meet a great guy, and then I could smoothly end the blog
and get on with the next phase in my life. Ah, a happy ending to my tragicomic
dating dramas.

But
no guy showed up, and my real life adventures were significantly more tragic
than comic. I didn't want to write about that.

A little pathos makes for a compelling narrative; a lot of pathos is just
a wicked downer. And I was pretty tired of bumming myself out by thinking of
bad dates; I wanted to do other things with my time.

Right,
so. What to do instead? I
came up with a lot of options.

I
could change the format, making the story into a play, free verse, or a novel.

I
could post every day, even when I had nothing to say, which would likely result
in a lot of discussion of what I had for lunch. (A burrito.)

I
could open it up for everyone to talk about their bad dates, instead of just
mine.

I
could delete it and move on with my life. I have plenty of other things to keep
me entertained.

I
even considered making it into a choose-your-own-adventure game. (Ha ha. I
crack myself up.)

The
status quo, ignoring the blog and letting it languish, was a pretty lame
option. I just wasn't sure what to choose. Decisions have a way of influencing
everything you do after. The only do-overs you get are changes in what you do
next, not what you already did.

I'd
spent a lot of time thinking about this lately, so on Saturday night I decided
to go to a friend's birthday party and let the question stew in the back of my
mind. Maybe the stars would look kindly on me and point to a solution. And as a
worst case scenario, I could at least enjoy myself while dressed ironically in
a t-shirt that was perplexingly demeaning to both women and electrical tape.

To
clarify, this is ironic because I am pro-woman and am very classy. Also, I have
nothing against electrical tape.

In
any case: It's Saturday, I'm dressed in a ridiculous costume to please the
birthday girl, and I'm headed to a party where my friends will appreciate my
ironic shirt and help distract me from my writing-induced angst.

The
party is already hopping by the time I arrive. There's a guy in a trench coat
on the deck, setting up a giant telescope to watch the moon. Stepping inside, I
see a crowd of people who have all interpreted the costume theme creatively.
There'san air-brushed t-shirt, some big
hair, several programming t-shirts, some jorts, a sparkly disco shirt, a plaid
hunting outfit, a ball gown, and a pair of garbage bags.Though to be fair, some of those people might
not have been in costumes. One can never quite tell with this crowd.

"Hey,
Jen!" said Air-brushed T-shirt.

"Hey!
Good to see you. How's work?"

"It's
fine. But your outfit is fantastic! You are rockin' that look. You should dress
that way all the time!"

"Uh,
thanks, I guess. How's the new house?"

"It's
great," he says, but he's too busy doing head-to-toe body scans on me to
really answer. I excuse myself, grab a soda, and head up to another friend.

"Hey,
Jen!"

"Hey,
Plaid Hunting Outfit. How are you feeling?"

"Ehhhh.
OK. Not quite better yet."

"What
did you have?"

"Bronchitis."

"Ohhh,
that sucks. Bronchitis is horrible. How long have you had it?"

"Two
months."

"Ugh.
I'm sorry. It sounds like it is really sticking with you."

"Yes,
like the image of your shirt will stick with me forever," he said.

"Ah,
yes. It really dances along the line between good taste and bad taste, and then
makes a decisive leap towards utter tackiness, doesn't it?"

"The
electrical tape really--"

"Oh,
say no more," I said.

"--
goes beyond--"

"No,
really. Please say no more."

I work my way over to the food, and run into someone else I know.

"Hey,
Jen."

"Hey,
Programming T-shirt. How are you doing?"

"I'm
doing very well. What are you up to?"

I
sigh. "Well, apparently I'm wearing this shirt." I back up a bit in
the crowd so he can see.

"Yes,"
he said. "Yes, you are."

"It's
ironic, because I'm so classy," I said, but he didn't hear me
because he was staring too loudly. Sigh.

I
scan the room for a better option, and see my blessedly female friend Olivata
Luna, the cheerful master gardener, who is wearing a fetching sparkly disco top
and a stellar pair of earrings. She won't feel the need to cast me in the porn
film running in her head. Plus maybe I could get some advice on getting a rat
out of my compost bin.

"Hey,
Olivata!" I shouted as I wove through the crowd.

"Hey,
Jen!"

"How's
the garden?"

"Great!"
she said, then said a bunch of Latin that was probably plant names but sounded
like "epithelial sarcophagus pachyderm".

"Excellent!"
I said, and nodded as if I understood. She's a much better gardener than I am.
I mostly plant pretty flowers and hope they live.

"How
have you been?" she asked, still smiling. Ah, so nice to see a friendly
face.

I
sigh. My dilemma spills from my mouth in one incoherent and whiny whole."I want to write, but I don't know what
to do. I'm thinking I should change the blog somehow, but I have a lot of
choices and I'm not sure which one is best. And what if I choose wrong? Or what
if I do something different and then give up? I might give up! And then the
whole Internet would mock me."

"They
aren't going to mock you."

"Easy
for you to say. Your dating life isn't published for all the world to see.
Maybe I should switch to writing fiction. Then I could control what
happens."

"Yes!"
she said as she grabbed both my arms for emphasis." You make your own
reality, you know."

"Right."

"Oh!
You should make it a choose-your-own-adventure game!"

"You
know, I've actually thought of that," I said.

"Do it!"

"Did
someone say 'choose-your-own-adventure game'?" said Plaid Hunting Outfit.
"Because just the other day I was reading about a Zorg generator."

Which,
as I said earlier, was not the weird part of my evening. I stayed at the party
a bit longer, meeting new people, catching up with old ones. After a while I
got tired of being jostled, of being pushed to and fro by the crowd. So I found
a quiet bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed, listening to the party through
the wall. How does that poem go? Something about "only the gods know
the path of the stars"? No, I'm pretty sure I'm misquoting it.

But
perhaps I am philosophicallycorrect
nonetheless. There isn't any way to know what is going to happen. I'm trying to
make the right choice, and there really isn't a "right" choice, just
a next choice.

I
got my coat, looked at the moon through the telescope for a while, and drove
home. I have to choose something. What should I choose? I have to choose
something. What should I choose?

Once
home, I greeted the dog, let her outside for some fresh air, and checked my
phone one last time for the night.

Which
is when the weird thing happened.

There
was an e-mail message from Blogger, where I host www.halfgods.com, telling me that someone
had left a comment. That's odd. Only one person has ever left a comment before.
And--No, wait. Really?

The
comment was from someone I don't know, who found the blog by searching on
Google.

Does
that mean that people are reading this?

Oh!
Hello, Internet! When I addressed you as my readership before, I thought I was
just being ironic. I didn't think that anyone was actually paying
attention.

Geez,
I should really post more often.

Okay,
fine, Internet. I'll make you a deal. If you are actually reading, then I'll
actually write.

You:

Add a comment to any post. Flattery is good.

Suggest a phrase
("rental goats", "fluffernutter and pumpernickel",
"space ninjas") or a situation ("hanging from the
balcony", "at the coffee shop", "while ogling Olympic
swimmers") and I'll pick one to incorporate into a future post.

I
have no control over what you suggest, and you have no control over what I do
with that suggestion.

Ha!
You don't know the paths of the stars either, do you? No, you don't, because
from now on, I'm writing fiction.

I'm so glad to hear that you're planning to continue the blog in whatever form. :-)Here is a sentence for you. You'll never guess where I copy/pasted it from!I think it is important for people, especially women, to be illiterate because then they could be able to get jobs and communicate with their co-workers, so that when they learn the alphabet, they can read the letters aloud to others, to read men and women's bathroom signs, knowing what street signs say.